Contract Marriage With My Billionaire Boss

VENUS

"You'll be fine, Mom. I promise."

I smiled, even if it felt like lying through my teeth. "My job pays well, I've got savings, we'll handle the chemo soon."

I had to be strong. For both of us.

She gave a weak sigh, eyes glistening. "You shouldn't be wasting your life on me, Venus. You're only twenty-two. You should be out there living, dancing, falling in love..."

"Stop." I tucked a stray curl behind her ear and kissed her forehead. "You don't worry about anything. I've got us."

Her voice dropped. "How's your dad?"

My jaw clenched.

Of course, she couldn't meet my eyes. The man hadn't visited once since her diagnosis.

"I haven't seen him since Sunday," I said flatly. "And I hope I don't. It's been peaceful."

She opened her mouth-probably to defend him again-but I stood. "I have to get to work, Mom. I'll see you later."

"Thank you for coming every day, sweetheart. I don't deserve you."

"You do," I said, hugging her. "I'm your daughter. That's all that matters."

------

I hailed a cab, dropped into the backseat, and clutched my bag like my life depended on it. Inside was the file. The file. The one Aaron Sinclair had tossed onto my desk last night like a time bomb.

You'd check twice too if you worked for a man like him-dangerous in Dior, heartless in Hugo. He's the kind of man who walks into a room and makes gravity shift. Broad shoulders. Razor jaw. Hazel eyes that could slice through you if his words hadn't already done it.

To every other woman, he's a fantasy. To me? A nightmare in tailored suits.

Two months working under him, and I swear he gets off on making my life miserable. Impossible deadlines, inhuman workload, cold stares that could freeze hell itself. And yet he hasn't fired me. Because no matter how much he wants to break me, I always deliver.

Why not quit, you ask?

Because I can't. I was a waitress before this, barely surviving. This job is the reason my mother has a bed in a hospital and not a floor in a rundown clinic. I have a degree, yes. But the world doesn't pay in potential, it pays in cold, hard results.

The cab pulled up in front of the towering steel-and-glass building I now called hell. I paid, got out, and took a deep breath.

Showtime.

------

The second I stepped into my office-just a thin wall away from Mr. Sinclair's-the intercom rang.

"My office. Now."

No greeting. Just that voice. Sharp. Clipped. Cold.

"God, give me strength," I muttered and walked to his door.

Knock.

"Come in."

I entered and stood straighter than usual. "Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. You called for me?"

He didn't look up right away. When he did, those hazel eyes locked on mine like a sniper's target.

"Sit," he said, irritation laced in every syllable.

I sat. The silence stretched. Long enough to make me fidget. Then-

"Marry me."

I blinked. My brain stalled.

"What?"

"Don't make me repeat myself," he said smoothly, like he hadn't just shattered reality.

And just like that, my nightmare said he wanted to make it legal.

VENUS

"Marry me."

My brain short-circuited.

"W-what?" I blinked, pushing up my oversized glasses-scratched, crooked, and clinging to life like my sanity. His eyes tracked the motion, brimming with disdain. Typical.

"You heard me," he replied coolly, like he'd just asked for a meeting reschedule, not proposed marriage to the woman he's treated like corporate lint for two months straight.

God, I loathe this man.

"What, is this some new psychological warfare tactic?" I folded my arms. "Because the emotional labor you've inflicted isn't quite enough?"

"Marry me and I-"

"No." My voice cut through the tension like a blade. Sharp. Final.

He blinked. Just once. But I saw it-surprise. As if the idea of being turned down had never occurred to him.

"No?" he echoed, mildly offended.

Didn't think I'd ever speak back, did you?

"Want it in Spanish? French? Morse code?"

"You haven't even heard my offer."

"I don't want your offer." My voice rose. "I'm not interested in whatever twisted bargain you've cooked up in that emotionally unavailable brain of yours."

He leaned back in his chair, lips twitching. Not quite a smirk, something colder.

"One million dollars."

Silence.

My heart stuttered. He's crazy. I was genuinely concerned now, Did he hit his head or something?

"A million?" I asked, incredulous. "You think throwing money at me will fix the months you've spent micromanaging me into oblivion? You've treated me like disposable help, now suddenly I'm bride material?"

"You'll have time to consider," he said evenly. Calm. Measured. Calculating. Like he hadn't just upended my world.

I scoffed and slammed a folder on his desk. "Here's the report you asked for. And no, I'm not for sale. You're not the devil in disguise, Sinclair. You are the disguise."

Then I walked out.

And for the first time since I started working for him... there was no retaliation. No snide remarks. No passive-aggressive memos.

Just silence.

It should've felt like peace.

It didn't.

By the time I left work, the weight of it all was pressing on my chest-like the moment before a storm. I ran into Jude at the elevator.

"You're heading out early," he noted.

"Yeah," I said with a tired smile. "Gotta check on Mom."

"Tell her I said hi."

I nodded, waved, and headed home hoping for quiet.

I got it.

But not the kind I wanted.

The apartment was still. Too still.

I opened my bedroom door and my stomach sank.

Drawers overturned. Sheets yanked off. My closet wide open like a wound.

"No," I whispered, lunging for the box under my bed.

Empty.

All of it gone. Every dollar I'd scraped and saved for Mom's chemo. Months of tips, late nights, skipped meals vanished.

There was no sign of forced entry. No broken windows. No lock tampering.

Just one conclusion.

Only one person had a key.

Only one person had ever taken more from me than he gave.

Dain.

VENUS

I wiped my eyes before stepping into Mom's ward. They must've been swollen. I hadn't stopped crying since dawn, and Dain? Still not picking up.

"Hey, Mom," I said, faking a smile so fragile it could crack if she blinked too hard.

Her expression shifted instantly. "Venus, what's wrong? You've been crying."

Of course she saw through it. She always does.

"Yeah... my boss is being an ass again," I lied. The truth would break her. And I couldn't add one more crack to her already-fractured world.

"Venus-" she started softly.

"It was my fault. I don't wanna talk about it," I muttered, brushing it off like it didn't weigh a ton.

She didn't push. Just reached for my hand. "Okay, darling. You don't have to."

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Did Dain come by?"

"No... is he back home?" Her voice lifted, blooming with a hope that made me sick.

That man didn't deserve her hope.

"No. He hasn't." My voice turned cold, sharp and bitter. She noticed.

"Venus-"

"I should go. You need rest. Chemo starts next week."

Another lie. It scorched my throat. God, I needed to make it true before it killed her.

We hugged. She smelled like antiseptic and lavender. I held on too long. Then I left.

The hospital was close, but each step felt like dragging a dead body-mine. The weight of hopelessness pressed on my shoulders, heavy and relentless. I kept hearing it-his voice.

Marry me.

Was he serious? Was it a game? A trap he'd enjoy watching me writhe in?

The thought sickened me. The fact I was considering it? Worse.

When I reached home, the front door was cracked open.

No.

I knew I locked it.

I stepped in and there he was. Dain. Sprawled on the couch, reeking of sweat and stale alcohol. Passed out, useless.

Disgust burned up my throat.

I grabbed a cup, filled it with water, and dumped it on his face.

"Get up, you asshole."

He bolted upright, sputtering. "What the fuck?! You little-"

"You stole my money, Dain! Where is it?!"

His bloodshot eyes lit up with smugness. "You had that much stashed and let Billy rough me up for peanuts? Selfish little bitch."

"You were never supposed to touch it. It was for Mom's chemo."

He scoffed. "Why bother? She's dying anyway."

That was it.

"Shut up," I snarled. "Shut your fucking mouth!"

And then he slapped me.

Hard.

"That's no way to talk to your father," he slurred. "Didn't your mother teach you-"

I snapped.

My eyes locked on a broken shard of glass near the table. I grabbed it, hand trembling but firm.

"Get out. Now. Or I swear to God, I'll gut you."

He paused. Blinked.

The threat landed.

He raised his hands, backing away. "Let's not be hasty-"

"I said get out!" I screamed, lunging a step forward.

He stumbled. Then bolted.

As the door slammed shut, I collapsed. Sinking to my knees, hands shaking, chest heaving. Then the tears came-violent, uncontrollable. Not soft sobs. This was grief, rage, helplessness all tangled in one.

I sat in that storm for a long time.

When the shaking slowed, I cleaned the house like it could scrub my shame. But I couldn't outrun one thought:

Mr. Sinclair.

Maybe I should've listened. Maybe I should've asked more questions. Maybe-just maybe-he was serious.

I hated him. Hated how cold he was. How powerful. How he always seemed ten steps ahead. But I had nothing left.

Desperate people make stupid choices.

I picked up my phone.

He answered on the fourth ring.

"About your offer..." My voice was hollow. "Were you serious?"

"Yes." No hesitation. No emotion. Just cold certainty.

"Then I'll take it," I whispered. My pride shattered like glass on tile.

"Good," he said. Like he knew I'd fold. "We'll discuss the terms tomorrow. At the office."

Click.

Just like that, I traded my freedom for hope.

If it saves her... maybe it's worth it.